


out of orbit

by ebenroot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Space, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-14 01:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebenroot/pseuds/ebenroot





	out of orbit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seventhstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/gifts).



“Have you given it some thought as to how you will seduce the commander on your wedding night?” Phichit asks two nights before Yuuri’s wedding. Yuuri -- who was in the midst of drinking his tea as he went over the last minute preparations for the reception -- spits it up.

“ _W-What?_ ”

Phichit blinks as though he doesn’t know what he said wrong. “I’ve heard humans were a bit _odd_ in their ways. You mean you’ve never thought about it?”

“I - _no._ ” Yuuri wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, setting his tea down for now when it becomes clear that Phichit doesn’t intend to let this conversation just drop so easily. “Our marriage is purely business. Us doing... _that_ would be the equivalent to you sleeping with your general or something of that matter.”

“Have you _seen_ Seung-Gil? I wouldn’t mind if he propositioned me.”

“I’m not listening to this right now--”

“Oh come on!” Phichit lightly bats at Yuuri’s shoulder, smirk on his lips. “You mean to tell me that you’ve haven’t thought _once_ about it? Not even just a passing thought about what he looks like underneath all those shiny medals and that tight blue uniform?”

Yuuri has only seen Commander Victor Nikiforov once in person, though he has saw the man in many holotapes, photoscreens and video chats in the months leading up to their marriage. Really, a digital projection was in no way a comparison to the real thing; the flesh and flush of blood beneath Nikiforov’s skin as he took Yuuri’s hand and slipped on the engagement ring made Yuuri _feel_ something that he didn’t feel when he only gazed upon the man’s image through static and blue screens. Yuuri isn’t _blind_ , but he’s just... _not thinking about_ **_that_** _._

So, sternly, Yuuri answers with a ‘no’. And to further shut the conversation out, he brings the guest list up to obscure his face so he cannot see the disbelieving look in Phichit’s eyes any further.

  
  


 

 

The thing is, though Yuuri hasn’t thought much of their consummation, he _has_ thought extensively about the first kiss they will share as a married couple. Maybe perhaps, even more that he should have been thinking about it.

He doesn’t _mean_ to think about the kiss so much. But Nikiforov just does things with his mouth, like blowing on his sample of one of the dishes that will be served at the reception because it is too hot, puckering his lips _just so._ Or even now as they go through the rehearsal, Nikiforov idly bites at his bottom lip while listening to the deacon walk them through the ceremony.

Yuuri wants the kiss to be appropriate. Nothing too forward or too raunchy. Properly tasteful for a union that is meant to strengthen bonds between Victusia and the Federate and nothing more. But yet...there’s something in Yuuri’s chest that tickles at the thought of what Nikiforov’s lips would feel like. Would they be soft? Firm? Would the kiss make Yuuri’s foot pop like how in those human romantic comedy films Phichit had exported to him a good while back?

(“You’re _marrying_ a human, you should at least know how he’ll court you!” Phichit had assured him, before he leant Yuuri a _crate_ of films transferred to holodiscs, the majority of which were produced before Earth’s implosion and a relative few produced afterwards).

“What are you thinking about?” Nikiforov asks him as they kneel at the altar. For the rehearsal, the commander is dressed in his fatigues, baggy and grey with only a serial number to identify him stitched on the left pocket of his chest instead of the amalgamation of all his medals earned. Frustratingly, it only seems to make Nikiforov even _more_ handsome to look at.

“Nothing,” Yuuri whispers. Then, “You shouldn’t be talking right now anyways.”

“The furrow of your brows make you look as though you wish some poor unfortunate soul would burst into flames at this very second,” Nikiforov whispers back. Yuuri blushes, bringing a hand to his forehead. Mari has always said he subconsciously expresses himself with the pull and turn of his brows if not the twist of his moue.

“Am I? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to--”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Nikiforov reassures, then smiles. “To be honest, my mind is wandering as well.” He glances up to the deacon standing at his pulpit, reading the text inscribed in Keihdish, Victusia’s official language aside from the language of Partzivan used through the majority of the solar system. “Doesn’t it look like he has the Big Dipper etched onto his forehead?”

A smile begs to appear on Yuuri’s lips, the corners of his mouth twitching. But, he staves the urge.

“No.”

“Right there, connecting one brow with the other,” Nikiforov further explains. He points with his eyes rather than the hands that remain folded and rested against the velvet bench they both are kneeling at. Yuuri’s eyes wander to the deacon’s wide forehead, and oh. He sees the birthmark, and the giggle escapes his mouth before he can hold his tongue.

The deacon pauses mid-recite, eyebrow raised and bending the handle of the Big Dipper birthmark. “Your Highness? Is there something you would like to say?”

Yuuri bites the bottom of his lips, the burn of his cheeks from mirth now being replaced with small embarrassment. “N-No, Sir. Please, excuse my outburst and continue.”

The deacon peers at Yuuri over the rim of his glasses, then looks over to Nikiforov with just as much suspicion in his beady black eyes. Eventually, the deacon clears his throat and resumes where he dropped off in the reading.

Nikiforov’s elbow lightly touches against Yuuri’s arm, just a knowing touch and subtle enough that the deacon doesn’t notice that Nikiforov is still not paying much attention.

But to be honest, with the commander’s arm pressed tightly against his own, and out of the corner of his eye Yuuri sees the commander’s tongue run over his bottom lip just because, the prince does not think he is paying much attention either.

 

 

 

Yuuri’s grandmother -- the Grand Dame of Her Majesty, the Queen Hiroko -- gifts them a fertility idol carved from whitewood for their wedding. Yuuri doesn’t know whether to be mortified at his grandmother giving him such a thing, or confused because _why_ does his grandmother still have this thing?!

“It’s how your mother came about,” the elderly Victusian woman says to Yuuri’s horror-stricken face. “Place that on your bedside and pray before you get to it.”

Nikiforov stands at Yuuri’s side, looking down at the idol in his hands. He’s got a far more pleasant smile on his lips, compared to Yuuri who is standing with mouth agape and a pitiful whine sounding from his throat.

“He’s rather...well endowed,” Nikiforov says after a beat of silence. The smile doesn’t have the decency to move from his lips; in fact, it only seems like Nikiforov’s smile grows _bigger_.

The Grand Dame nods her head. “That’s for you. So you can have the energy to keep up with him.”

“ _Maama!_ ” Yuuri hisses, not meaning for the word to sound so harsh on his tongue, but the stinging of his cheeks was becoming too much.

The Grand Dame raises an eyebrow at Yuuri’s outburst, then shrugs.

“Well Victusians are know to be  _rigorous_ lovers,” she says, gesturing with her hand that is adorned with gold rings and diamonds. “Wouldn’t want to give him a heart attack on your wedding night, do you?”

“I - that’s not - _we’re not_ \- this -” Yuuri can’t even produce a sentence in Keihdish to say, “ _This marriage is_ **_purely_ ** _political and we absolutely will have_ **_no need_ ** _for this thing!!_ ” He tries to say it though. He tries _very_ hard.

He does not have to suffer in his embarrassment for much longer; one of the aides comes over to fetch the Grand Dame for her afternoon tea with Her Majesty, and she gives Yuuri’s right cheek a loving pat as she rises from her chair.

“Take good care of him,” she tells to Nikiforov as she leans her weight on her cane. “I would like to meet my great-grandchildren very soon.”

Nikiforov’s smile is genuine. “Of course, I will, Ma’m.”

“Please, call me _Maama_. We’re family now,” she coos.

A confused blink of his eyes, then a chuckle slips from Nikiforov’s lips. “Yes, _Ma-ow-ma_.”

The Grand Dame’s wince of Nikiforov’s Keihdish isn’t the least bit subtle. But, she pats his cheek good-naturedly as well before she leaves the two of them alone in the parlor room. Once the door has closed shut behind her, Yuuri drops his face into his hands.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Commander,” he apologizes, reaching for the idol. Nikiforov holds it just out of Yuuri’s reach.

“Hold on, I’m not offended or anything,” Nikiforov explains. Yuuri’s cheeks feel as though they are stinging even more when Nikiforov directs his smile in Yuuri’s direction. For some reason, a _lot_ of Yuuri’s body - his cheeks, his hands, his chest - seem to just _burn_ from Nikiforov looking at him as the days to their wedding tick slowly by.

Nikiforov holds the idol gingerly in his grasp, smiling fondly. “You know, I never thought about children coming out of this marriage. I...I didn’t think about anything coming out of this marriage really, aside from the Federate getting another planet to scratch its back at the Galactic Union meetings.” He laughs, and the sound makes Yuuri hurt. “Wow...I can’t even _imagine_ what I would be like as a father. Is that strange?”

Yuuri can’t imagine what he’d be like as a father either. But for a split second, he can picture Nikiforov walking hand in hand with a small child dressed in the white robes of a member belonging to the royal family, in the same way that he walks with Yuuri through the gardens of the palace and to their separate bedchambers every night.

The thought startles him.

Even more so startling is how a little urge in his chest wants for it to come true.

Nikiforov turns the idol around in his hands. “What are the proper ways to praying to it?” he asks, shaking Yuuri from the confusing fantasy running amuck in his mind.

“U-Um,” Yuuri clears his throat, “you ask for its power to bless you, and then you kiss the head.”

Nikiforov blinks. Then, he brings the idol to his face and--

“ _Not there!_ ” Yuuri cries, pushing the idol away before Nikiforov can grace his lips against the idol’s erect tip.

“But you said--”

“Its _actual_ head,” Yuuri corrects, finally having an opportunity to take the idol from the commander’s hands. “I’m putting this in the library or something,” he murmurs more to himself than to Nikiforov. Though, if they happen to come across a servant taking the garbage out to the grounds, he’ll settle with chucking the idol there too.

Nikiforov gets up to follow him out the parlor room and down the hallway, his hands behind his back. After a few steps, he says, “A child from you would surely be beautiful.”

Yuuri nearly trips over his own two feet.

  


 

 

The night before their wedding, Yuuri has an...odd dream.

Nikiforov -- in his military dress and medals -- takes Yuuri by the hand and kisses the finger where the engagement ring sits prettily on. Then, his lips move up higher, higher. He kisses up Yuuri’s arm, presses his lips against the hollow of his throat and the jut of his chin until at last, his lips find Yuuri’s. They taste like Yuuri’s favorite thing in the world, so soft and warm against his mouth that he can’t help but _sigh_ against them.

And when Nikiforov’s tongue slips into Yuuri’s mouth with a moan chasing after it, Yuuri welcomes it and swallows the sound eagerly.

 

 

 

 

The wedding reception is small. The kiss is short and sweet.

“Did I tell you you look beautiful today?” Nikiforov asks as the deacon goes through the final readings and there’s an ache forming in Yuuri’s thighs from kneeling for so long.

“You have,” Yuuri says, peeking underneath the veil of gold and spun silver. “Shh.”

Nikiforov’s smile is soft and Yuuri feels the urge to kiss it again, swipe his tongue against the commander’s bottom lip as he murmurs his praises against Yuuri’s mouth. As though it would make the urge just ‘go away’, Yuuri lowers his veil and faces forward, hands twitching on the bench.

“You look beautiful,” Nikiforov says in a whisper anyways, and though Yuuri isn’t looking at him, he knows the man is smiling.

 

 

 

They don’t return to the palace long after the reception came to a close and they’ve both thanked their guests. As per the usual, Nikiforov walks Yuuri to his bedchambers hand in hand, the coat of his uniform undone and cheeks flushed a peachy red from one too many flutes of white seed wine.

“Your friend from Telkai is rather charming,” Nikiforov slurs, words punctuated with a hiccup. “Him and his general. Their Hound is so _cute_. I’ve honestly never seen another breed of dog since the Implosion.”

“Have you had a dog before…” Yuuri bites at his lip. He’s never spoken much about the Implosion with Nikiforov, though it has always been a thought in the back of his mind from the moment he was announced to be engaged with a human from the Federate. Vaguely, he remembers what it was like. He was still only a child, but he remembers how on that day in the skies of Victusia, there was a bright flash of light as though a new sun was born amid the cosmos.

He told Mari it was the most beautiful thing he seen.

“Mmm, yeah.” Nikiforov starts to swing their hands forward and back as they make their ascent up the staircase. “She was really cute. Her fur was really soft.” Then, with his other hand, he clumsily brushes a lock of Yuuri’s hair behind his ear. “Soft like your hair. Except more curly.”

He continues to play with the lock of hair. Yuuri hopes the burning at the tips of his ears isn’t noticeable.

“...Did she--”

“No. She didn’t.” Nikiforov’s smile is lopsided, a bit of sadness at the corners. “They brought the animals they wanted to preserve. She was a mutt I got from the shelter and…” Nikiforov hiccups and sniffs, shrugging. “I don’t know. They’re like that in the Federate. They -- they only want things that matter. Things that are efficient. Business is business and things need to be done with a purpose.”

“Oh.” Yuuri pauses by a window that overlooks the garden, the skies fading blue and violet with a few specks of stars visibly seen. “Do you...miss it?”

Nikiforov’s thumb lightly rubs against the back of his hand. “I miss my mom...I miss the ocean...I think I missed things that made it ‘Home’. The Federate...it doesn’t feel like ‘Home’.”

This was only meant to be business. Just a simple union. The glints of Nikiforov’s ring catches the light of Victusia’s moon gleaming through the window panes as he moves his hand to cup Yuuri’s cheek, and Yuuri’s breath stills in his chest. The commander moves in closer, and Yuuri can smell the white seed wine on the breath that ghosts over his parted lips. Closer, closer. Yuuri’s eyes fall shut in anticipation. Closer, _closer_.

_Buuuuurrrp!_

Yuuri winces and pulls back, fanning the air and Nikiforov’s belch away. Nikiforov sways, steadying himself with a hand to Yuuri’s shoulder.

“M’sorry,” he says, laughing. “Your dad...your dad _really_ knows how to make a toast.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says with a sigh, wrapping an arm around Nikiforov’s to hold him steady. “He does.”

 

 

It’s a slip of the tongue, honestly.

Minami has been riding Yuuri’s tail since the morning, fretting over his first mission as an envoy to Tchikai-24 to seek out hopes of partnership and trade. Yuuri honestly doesn’t get himself involved in exploration affairs. He’s always desired to keep close to home, focusing his attention and efforts on the things that they already had and could _always_ improve on rather than the wonders and mysteries of the far far unknown.

“What notes would you want me to have, Your Highness? Should I go for something detailed? Something short? Should I include pictures? Oh, but I heard Tchikai doesn’t actually look like anything other than black sand dunes, so pictures might be boring.” Minami talks at twenty words a second. Yuuri adores the cadet, honestly, and it’s not only because Minami _is_ his cousin and it’s such a rarity to be able to see him outside of the academy. But _god_ , he is exhausting. Yuuri just wants to find a cup of tea and settle down with another one of his books in the comfort of Nikiforov’s study.

Maybe it's a subconscious desire, but Yuuri’s feet _do_ wind up taking him to Nikiforov’s study with Minami trailing at his heels. Nikiforov is sitting at his desk when they enter, half-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and book open in front of him.

“Is it time for afternoon tea already?” Nikiforov asks, checking the face of his watch.

“No,” Yuuri answers, turning to Minami. “Kenjirou, I’m sure that my husband will be able to help you with any matters regarding intergalactic voyaging. I still have other business I need to attend to before the sun goes down,” he says, clapping a firm hand on Minami’s shoulder. Looking to Nikiforov expectantly -- who for some reason, is staring at Yuuri with a look of awe and wonder -- Yuuri lightly pushes Minami towards the desk. “I’ll call you both for tea later.”

With that, Yuuri takes a book off one of the white shelves and scurries off for some peace and quiet at _last_ .  


 

 

Nikiforov smiled during the entirety of afternoon tea and dinnertime. Even as he escorts Yuuri to his bedchambers now, the smile on his lips is curled up nice and tight.

“What has put you in such a good mood?” Yuuri inquires.

“...You just...um, it’s silly--” Nikiforov laughs.

“Tell me. I’m curious.”

Nikiforov pauses by the portrait newly installed of them both. Sometimes, Yuuri finds himself stopping to stare at it, at the way how Nikiforov’s hand is delicately intertwined with his own.

“You called me ‘your husband’ today,” Nikiforov says, and he makes the words sound so _giddy_ coming from his mouth with that smile.

“...But that’s what you are? My husband?”

“I just...I never heard you call me that before,” Nikiforov says. He starts to swing their hands together in that bashful way he always does. “It’s usually either a ‘Commander’ or ‘Commander Nikiforov’ or something like that. So...I don’t know, I told you that it was silly--”

“Does it really make you that happy for me to call you my husband?” Yuuri asks, mildly astonished.

Nikiforov shrugs. “A little...a lot…” He laughs. “I don’t know...kinda like you thinking that I’m yours, you know?...Kinda makes this feel like...like it’s more than just--” he waves his free hand in the air, like he’s picking out the answer. Yuuri understands, and the warmth begins to build in his cheeks.

“...Oh...you can -- um -- you can...call me your husband too,” Yuuri murmurs, hand instinctively squeezing Nikiforov’s tighter.

“Can I?”

“We _are_ married.”

Nikiforov’s smile gets bigger, and he brings their joined hands to his lips where he kisses Yuuri’s ring finger.

“We are.”

  


By the end of the month, Nikiforov becomes ‘My Husband’ to Yuuri.

By the end of two months. ‘My Husband’ becomes ‘My Victor’, and Yuuri says it in loving sighs against the soft seam of Victor’s mouth every chance that he gets.  



End file.
